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KARL LUGGED HIS stuff (a banana box of cookery books and a suitcase full of clothes) from the parking garage to his new bunk. He made quick work of his shit, shoving the clothes into the wardrobe, and toiletries in the bathroom.
His eye immediately latched onto the door on the other side of the wash basin. One that, without a doubt, led to Paul’s room. Shared bathroom, huh? Well that little detail had been left out.
Karl rested a palm on the handle, then, with an internal shrug, cracked it open. Spacious, big bed, yada-yada. Much the same as his own. What was he expecting? A passageway up to an attic where he locked in his crazy wife? Okay, enough with the wife already.
A little uncomfortable in the place on his own, he snatched his wallet and headed out. Coffee was a must. Maybe it’d kill the butterflies in his stomach. Uh, more like bees on adrenalin. It didn’t make sense. He seriously wasn’t worrying about his ability to handle a kid probably a third his size. Although Paul was a notch taller than him—maybe the kid was bigger. Not the point.
With a double shot of espresso down him, and still antsy, Karl took a hike to the waterfront. Paul was giving him a chance here. Paul. A handful of pebbles in his fist, Karl moved closer to the edge. A red and green wrapper rippled under the gentle sway of the water. Tightening his grip on one of the stones, he aimed at the target. Missed.
He should be so frigging lucky he’d found some work. Missed again. It was easy to be cheery and light with Paul back there, but even under the beginnings of smiles, even despite having been given the job, what he’d done didn’t go away. He might’ve only got the chance because Paul was trying not to hold a grudge. Come three weeks, when the trial period was over, he could easily tell him to get lost. He’d have proven to himself he was an upstanding guy. Now get the fuck out of his place.
Karl hurled his last stone. Didn’t land anywhere near the piece of floating crap.
He was being ridiculous. So fucking ridiculous. What was getting into him? Three weeks of sleeping in a car, that had to be it.
* * *
Karl walked past Perfect Teeth at reception. A waving hand stopped him and he backtracked.
“So you got the job working for Mr. Hyte, huh?”
And because it’s never a bad idea to be on good terms with the hotel staff, he answered with a friendly—“Yep.”
She nodded her head animatedly. “You know, and no offence, I was surprised a guy got the job. I would’ve thought he’d want a more maternal figure around his boy, but actually, it might not be such a bad thing. All the women tend to go berserk around the boss and he probably needs a break from that.” She leaned forward and raised her brows as she shared the gossip. “Even pregnant, the last girl was a shocking flirt.”
Karl, realizing he could learn a thing or two about Paul, leaned in. “Really?”
“I think part of the allure is that no one can catch him. Makes it a challenge. And everyone wants to be the one that mends his broken heart.”
“Have you tried, Missy? Wait a sec—” broken heart? But Perfect Teeth had already cut over him.
“That’s Natasha. And no.” Something about the direct way she said it made him believe her.
“What did you mean by ‘mend his broken heart’?”
Here her mouth dropped. In a hushed voice, she said, “You don’t know?” Then without him needing to reply to what was obviously the case, she continued, “Well, I guess you wouldn’t. You are new here—though I did think Mr. Hyte’s reputation spread much further than these hotels.”
“Reputation?”
“Oh, yes. For the last year Mr. Hyte has jumped back in, ah, the pond. He takes a new lady out at least once a week. None of them so far have lasted more than two dates.”
Karl found he’d propped his elbows onto the counter and quickly stood upright again.
“Anyway, back to the broken heart issue”—Natasha’s expression quickly grew somber—“His wife died in childbirth coming on four years ago now. It was tragic, everyone loved Mrs. Hyte. She was such a genuine woman.”
Karl felt his pulse slow right down. Paul was a widower. He’d never thought—just assumed they’d split up or something, but died? He was quickly growing more respect for the man. “That’s tragic.”
Natasha nodded. “He mourned for a few months, then threw himself into his work. If you ask me, he works much too hard. That and he’s a single dad. I guess I can see how all the ladies fawn over him; they hear his history and they want him even more. If it isn’t enough he’s rich and good-looking.”
Karl raised a brow.
“What? I can think he’s good-looking objectively, even if he isn’t my taste.”
At that point a guest came up to reception. Karl gave her a nod and left, heading back outside, mulling over what he’d learnt. He checked his pocket for some cash. There might be a need for beer later.
* * *
Just before he was due to meet the kid, Karl found himself checking out the hotel restaurant’s menu. Daily special: Crab Stuffed Mushrooms. Didn’t sound half-bad. He glanced through the glass window, past the diners into the open kitchen. Maybe it was some sort of psychological thing, but whenever he saw a chef, he envisioned that it was him. He was the one tossing prawns in a pan and adding a pinch of grated lime. Sometimes he just couldn’t give up on the illusion he was living his dream job.
Forcing a chuckle at his pathetic self, he walked to the elevators. At each rising number, Karl felt those bees stir to life again. Okay, it was official, he was nervous to meet the kid—which was ridiculous. He’d only be around the boy mostly for breakfast and the prelude to dinner. Meal times. Just an additional challenge to his artwork in the kitchen. Maybe he could teach Charlie a thing or two. He could be his protégé. A four-year-old could peel vegetables, right?
The elevator pinged at his floor, and he trudged down the hallway. Shrill cries came through the door. Then a laugh. Paul’s, with that distinctive ring to it. He couldn’t just keep standing out here. Either he knocked, or he let himself in. Karl straightened himself, used his key-card and tapped at the same time.
Leaning on the back of the sofa was Paul, in a pair of faded jeans and a green polo shirt. So casual. This could’ve been a different guy. He’d almost assumed the guy wore his suit up until bed. Paul looked up, and this thickly fringed gray gaze landed on him. He immediately righted himself, dropping the arms he had crossed over his chest.
Oh, and wasn’t there a lot to make out of that chest through the thin layer of material covering it. Immediately vaporizing all such thoughts, Charlie jumped out from behind the long, drawn curtain and threw his arms around Paul’s legs. Ouch. That looked borderline torturous.
“Ah, hope it was okay I just came in?”
Paul nodded, then crouched to Charlie’s level. He patted the thick brown hair on the kid’s head and said something to him. Karl watched, taken aback by how alike the two looked. Charlie had the same eyes and nose, though his mouth looked fuller on his small oval face. He caught only the end of Paul’s words. “ . . . do that, okay?”
Charlie nodded and with a hesitant turn, faced Karl. He took two steps and reached out his hand. In a steady, if somewhat shy, voice he said, “Hello, Mr. Andrews, I’m Charlie.” He glanced back at his papa, who gave him a reassuring nod.
Karl cleared his throat and shook the boy’s little hand. “You can call me Karl.” He met Paul’s gaze over Charlie’s shoulder. “Okay?”
He nodded. Charlie smiled. “Karl. Karly?”
“No. Just Karl.”
The boy pouted. Maybe that’d been too harsh. He wavered. “Ah, you can call me Karly if I can call you Charlina.”
He scrunched up his nose. “But that’s a girl’s name. Karl, then.”
“Thought so.”
“You know, you’ve got a funny mark on your hand, what is it?” He pointed to the crescent on his wrist.
Paul came over and grabbed his son, flinging him into the air. Giggles burst out, thick and fast. “Papa! Pa-pa!”
He stopped, resting the boy on his knee as he leaned back against the sofa. “Sorry, Karl, kids can be pretty frank. And tactless.”
“Honest and to the point. That’s the way I like them.” Karl grinned and moved over to their side. He lifted his sleeve. “I did that cooking popcorn. I tipped over a pot of hot oil and burned myself. I had to go to the hospital where they took a bit of skin from my thigh and sewed it here.”
Karl glanced from the boy’s disgusted face to Paul’s wide-eyed one. Was that not okay to tell the boy? Crap.
“And that’s why,” Paul said, “you have to be very careful in the kitchen. A burn like that must have hurt a lot.” He looked at Karl.
“Yep. Terrible. The kitchen can be lots and lots of fun, but your papa’s right, you have to be safe. I can show you how, too.”
Charlie slid off Paul’s knees. “Right now?”
Karl smiled. “How about tomorrow when you get back from pre-school?” But there was no reply as something in the corner of the room caught Charlie’s attention and he ran toward it.
“Nice kid,” Karl said.
Paul gave a proud smile. “I think so.”
Charlie came over, holding out a pencil case and some paper. “Do you want to draw?”
Not particularly, but a little never hurt. “Sure.”
An hour later, Karl actually felt exhausted. Where did kids get all this energy? He’d gone from drawing, to playing tag with crayons (he had a nice orange swipe down his sleeve now), to being shown all last year’s Christmas presents, to now, building Lego towers. “So,” Karl said to Paul, who was putting the finishing touches on a fence, “what time does he go to bed?”
Paul chuckled. “We eat dinner, then it’s brush teeth time and good night.”
Karl hoped the relief didn’t show up on his face. “And what are you having for dinner?”
Rolling a green piece of Lego between his fingers, he said, “I was just going to call room service and have something brought up.” He placed the piece at the edge of the tower. “Did you want to join us tonight?”
“I want wedges!” Charlie cried. “With sour cream.”
Karl smiled. “Yeah, actually, that’d be great.”
After Paul hung up the phone, Karl asked, “So, why don’t you just order room service? Why do you want me to cook, quote ‘boiled potatoes a side of fish and a vegetable’?”
“Well, on weekends and, um, since my last girl left, I’ve just ordered. I’m not great in the kitchen. But I don’t want to do that all the time. I’d like Charlie to have as much the feel of family life as possible. Cooked meals at home. Sitting together and such.”
Paul stood and grabbed his boy. “Time to wash up before dinner.”
Charlie whined.
“Suck it up, boy. Let’s go.”
Karl scooped up the Lego and dropped it into the box. In the kitchen, he found both adult and children’s plates and cutlery.
Charlie zigzagged into the room, Paul close at his heels. He stopped when he saw the table. A surprised and—was that a pleased?—look crossed his face. Paul turned to him, about to say something it seemed, when the doorbell rang.
“Can I get it? Can I get it?”
“No, Charlie. Sit at the table, I’ll grab it.”
Just him and the boy in the room. A small silence fell between them, then Charlie narrowed his eyes and held his gaze. “Ha-ha, you blinked first.”
Oh, okay, this he could play. “Did not.” He sat himself across from him and they stared off. Charlie roared with delight, when he, apparently, won again.
“Okay, so we have,” Paul said, plunking the dinner in the middle of the table, “one mushroom pasta, one risotto, and one wedges and sour cream. Hmmm, they must have got something wrong.” Paul put on his best frown. “Who on earth could that be for?”
“Me! Me!” Charlie swung his plastic knife around. Maybe Karl wouldn’t have him peeling vegetables just yet. Washing them . . . maybe.
And so on went dinner. Karl couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed so hard over just-better-than-average food. He stood up and cleared the plates, stacking them into the dishwasher.
He heard Paul’s harsh whisper. “Stop picking your nose, Charlie.”
“I’m not picking it.”
“What are you doing then?”
“Just cleaning out the boogers.”
And he cracked up. He just couldn’t help it.
* * *
Once Paul had tucked Charlie into bed, he came back out, pressing a palm to his head. Karl couldn’t blame him. Looking after a kid was, uh, perhaps a little tougher than he’d imagined.
“What are you still doing? You don’t have to hang around, you know.”
Karl headed to the fridge and pulled out two of the cold beers he’d stacked in there earlier. He opened them and pressed one into Paul’s hand. “In the interests of getting to know who my new boss is, yeah?”
He cocked his bottle and Paul tapped it with his own. In silence, they moved into the living room and sat themselves on the sofa.
Paul was the first to break the silence. “Okay, then. What do you want to know?”
Well there was the obvious. He wanted to know more about the rumors of Charlie’s mom. “So . . . ” He sipped again. “Just how many people call you Mr. Hyte? And how old does that make you feel?”
He gave an amused huff. “Actually, everyone calls me that. It’s been a while since I’ve heard Paul.”
“Do you miss it?”
He didn’t answer. Just swigged some more. Then, “Well, I guess I’ll be getting used to it if you end up sticking around.”
Karl inclined his head. That sounded encouraging. Maybe he wouldn’t just be given the boot. “Sure thing. Because I won’t touch ‘Mr. Hyte’ with a yard stick. Boss or not.” He smiled. “Sorry.”
A small grin cornered Paul’s lips. “Good. I won’t feel so old.”
They both gulped some beer at the same time. “And how long have you been managing the Pomodrolly hotels?”
“I got promoted three years ago.”
So, a year after his wife had died. Damn it, just ask him. Surely, he expected him to be curious. He ran his fingers over the paper of his bottle. Teased one corner. “What about Charlie’s mom?”
This time the silence before the answer stretched so long, Karl was sure asking had been a mistake.
“Laura died bringing Charlie into this world.” This time he took a long drag of beer. “You know, it’s been a busy day. I think I’m going to call it a night.” With that he excused himself and walked away.
Karl sat staring at the reflection in the blank television screen. The clock on the right hand side of the DVD player flashed. Eight-thirty.
Yep, definitely a mistake.